Dreamer (The Dream World Chronicles Book 1) by Camille Peters (thriller books to read .txt) 📕

Fields as I prepared for tonight’s Weaving. The bright patchworks of flowers caressed our legs, vying for our attention as we strolled along the curving paths. With every step, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Darius had known I’d seen his nightmare during our last Weaving. The worry about what he’d do with that information had kept me up all day, leaving me exhausted.

He knows.

I shook away the anxiety-inducing thought and consulted the list of details I’d need for tonight’s dream about an enchanted tea party. Only one more remaining.

We passed sections of scents, tastes, and tactile senses until we reached the one containing an array of sounds, where each blossom sang a snippet of the auditory detail it harbored. Although there was a large variety to choose from, I couldn’t find a music box melody.

I frowned. “They had some last night. Are they out?”

“No idea.” Stardust plopped on the moonlit path. “This is taking too long.”

I carefully parted a row of flowers so I could search the blossoms growing in the back and spotted several Cultivators standing several yards away. Iris worked amongst them, a basket of seeds beside her.

“I’m sure Iris will know where to find it.”

She looked up as we approached, and although she greeted us with her usual smile, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good evening. Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

“No,” Stardust said.

I sensed an upcoming revolt if I didn’t tend to my weary cloud soon. I took the list from her. “Go amuse yourself. Iris can help me find what I need.”

Stardust morphed from the tombstone shape she’d shifted into with her usual dramatic flare with a relieved pop. “Thank goodness, I was about to evaporate from boredom. Now I can search for clues for my latest investigation.”

“Don’t go too far; my Weaving is soon.” I called after her as she floated away.

“I won’t. After all, the Cultivating Fields are the scene of the crime.” She disappeared in the distance. Iris stared after her, gnawing her lip.

“Is something the matter?”

She jolted from her trance. “It’s nothing. What can I help you find?”

“I’m looking for a music box melody.”

“There’s a freshly grown batch just over there.” She gathered her cultivating supplies and led me through the field. Normally she was quite cheerful, but she seemed strangely somber as she cast frequent glances in the direction Stardust had flown.

“Do you know what Stardust is investigating?” I hoped it wasn’t what I suspected it was.

She stiffened. “What? Oh, I know a little bit. It’s most unusual…but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about…ah, here we are, music box flowers. Take your pick.”

She gestured towards a small clump of flowers harboring different melodies, all contending for my attention like an ill-rehearsed symphony. I listened to each before selecting a twirling waltz. I plucked the crimson tulip and scribbled it off the list.

“That was the last detail I needed. Thank you, Iris…Iris?”

She’d returned to Cultivating. The concentration lining her brow as she burrowed her hands in the transparent soil and the way the plants blossomed at her touch was so similar to Mother’s fluid movements that for a moment my heart ached, especially since Stardust’s continued investigations still hadn’t yielded any results.

Iris blinked absently as she glanced up. “Did you need any more help?”

I knelt beside her, still fixated on her gentle movements. “It’s amazing how a single touch causes such fantastic details to grow so effortlessly.”

Iris brightened. “Anything is possible with a bit of magic.”

“Gardening on Earth takes a lot of time and patience.”

“There’s no time for that here; there are simply too many Dreamers in need of details for the millions of dreams woven every night.” With another touch of magic and a light caress, the flower she tended grew upward, following the movement as she lifted her arm. With a twirl of her wrist, the bud appeared, crowning the freshly grown orchid. “Nothing to it.”

“I wish I could do that.”

She tilted her head. “Perhaps you can. After all, you accurately identified a seedling’s detail the day we met. Maybe you could become a Cultivator.”

Excitement rippled over me at the thought. Angel and Iris occasionally brought up the idea of my taking a side profession. Angel kept pestering me to try my hand at Nature Artistry, but if it required the same amount of artistic skill I possessed on Earth, I’d undoubtedly be terrible at it…unless Mortals enjoyed looking at two-dimensional, stick-figure clouds. No, when I took up a side profession—if I ever got a handle on Weaving—it’d be Cultivating. After all, Mother had been a Cultivator.

I eagerly leaned closer. “May I try?”

All traces of Iris’s previous somber mood vanished as she smiled and scooted over so I could come closer. “These flowers are just beginning to sprout, which is the perfect moment to sprinkle a bit of magic to aid their growth. First, we need to figure out which detail this seed contains. It’s like building a relationship; the stronger your connection, the more effective your magic will be, similar to a Weaver’s connection with their Mortal.”

She cupped her hand over the nearest plant and cocked her ear. Although I couldn’t hear anything, I knew waves of communication passed between her and the dream flower.

“Such a lovely detail. Listen.”

I copied her. At first there was only silence as I searched for the seed’s thread of magic, but then I felt a faint stirring, whispers in a language without words. The feeling grew gradually until it blossomed in my understanding with perfect clarity—a thunderstorm of pounding rain and a harsh wind. I yanked my hand away.

“What’s wrong?” Iris asked. “Don’t you like the sound of gentle rain?”

“Gentle?” Thunderstorms were anything but gentle—they were nothing but darkness and fright, and definitely had no place in dreams. Why was such a seed growing in the Cultivating Fields? “Isn’t rain a little Nightmarish?”

“Certainly not. A light spring storm cleanses the Earth and helps flowers grow. Such a detail could be used in dreams in all sorts of ways—the smell of